Behold the Man
by SilverCascade
Summary: When he's alive, he's everything and nothing. Bro Strider reflection, with a helping of angst. One-shot.


**A/N:**_ Experimenting with a different style._

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He doesn't smile and most of the time, he doesn't even speak. He hides his eyes behind the blackest and most expressive of shades, and he once cut a meteor in half with his fingerless-glove-clad hands curled around a cheap katana. He's a father but goes by a less formal title, and questioned the bizarre circumstances only after he acted. He carries a pair of pointed shades half the size of his own on his person at all times, which proved handy. He's owned the cap on his head for longer than he can remember, and though he has quite a collection of size and color in his home, he usually settles for classic grey. He doesn't fully know why this is.

He dreams some nights, when the sunglasses are blank on his bedside table; those shut, rolling eyes see staccato ruptures of darkness and plumes of red-black smoke and orange feathers. He cricks out knots in his back as he turns and bends in damp sheets. He wakes with a scream in his throat but knows to keep quiet lest he disturb his not-so-little brother. He opens those bright, bleary, bloodshot eyes as the moon lifts him up above the deep purple towers, and, soul still smudged with sleep as the behemoths begin whispering in their sadistic voices, he wishes he were dead.

He heaves himself from the bed and sees to the only reason does not breach felo-de-se. "Dave, you little shit," he calls, "get up or you're gonna be late for school!" He fries bacon, pulls juice from the fridge and calls it breakfast; some mornings it's eggs, and every morning it is eaten by another with some mindless complaint to follow. He doesn't mind what the little asshole says or does, and company in any form is a relief after the rancid dreams. He notes how the sounds and sentences fight off nightmares, just like his own words did for lil' man when he actually was lil' and came crawling and sobbing into his arms after a nightmare.

He feels his lip twitch upwards every time the kid makes a joke, but he never openly laughs; it's just not his style. He isn't afraid to let Dave know he cares, though, and high-fives and apple juice are the way into his heart. He likes to leave piles of those plush puppets around the apartment just to irritate him too, and the shrieks of "YOU FUCKING DICK!" at three in the morning when a sleepy lil' bro has opened the fridge for a snack only to be bombarded with velvet rumps, or the cries of "I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS FOR THIS, BRO!" when the foot trips over a stray pile of shitty, blunt swords, are worth the effort of the set ups.

He enjoys their strifes. He finds they aren't as easy as they used to be now that the kid isn't a kid anymore and can wield the swords he provides, but the fun is in the challenge. He can fight properly now, with little restraint 'cause there is no danger; lil' man got _good_. He loves the scrape of metal against metal and the heaviness of the katana in his hands. He appreciates the fact that the sheer shittiness of the weapons add to the irony of their brawls - what started as a way to keep the kid oblivious to the tightness of cash had stuck around and become homely, almost, even after he got good at rapping and took off. He can now buy them both enough luxuriously dangerous blades that if one even stops _glinting_ the right way it can be immediately switched for another, but he doesn't see the need to shatter the comfort blanket, the carefully crafted illusion holding their world together.

He has mixed feelings about the puppet always on his person. He's had the lil' fella for far too long to have an opinion anymore, but he does, and he still has feelings that change too often; one minute Cal is a grinning, cheerful representation of his quirky journey into fatherhood, the next it resembles a gaudy caricature of a smile, with teeth too-white and too-large and eyes that twinkle with darkness behind the blue varnish. He won't admit it, but he is afraid to look at the thing without wearing his shades, afraid of what grim secrets hide there, and what might happen if anyone, anyone at all, looked into that glassy gaze; that's why the thing has a pair of shades for rap shows, and that's why he insists his lil' bro wears his shades around _at all times_.

He doesn't understand what any of it means; not life, the universe, the meteors that rain down now and again, nor the emptiness in his chest. He only knows he must keep going, and on days when it isn't for himself, it's for Dave. He's aware of how much the lil' man relies on him, even if the kid's chaotic hormones won't let him admit it. He loves his brother. He sometimes wonders what would happen to Dave if he died.

He realizes that's a waste of fucking time, thinking that morbidly, and fights the waves of underlings as they emerge from the game. He doesn't know how he knows it's a game, a terrible, horrible game dragged from his nightmares and given life. He only knows he must fight it, fight it _all_, to keep that lil' shit safe.

He's aware that he'll die the most anti-climatic death possible. He's seen it countless times, the scarlet sky against impossibly huge towers made of grinding gears, towers that now surround him, and he can already feel the sharp pain in his chest that's heading his way. He realizes it is solely a question of when.

He is surprised to find he doesn't mind.

He knows why this is, too; the dreams, of rolling heads on quest beds and mysterious boxes that decapitate and brains _that aren't his own_ spread across the floor and the discarded circular shades thrown from the mangled head and the limp bloody form in his arms, the nightmares that make him want to leave the world, will stop alongside his heart. He knows when that time comes, the time for him to pass, he will sleep once and forever. He is only concerned for the child that will be left behind. He is aware too, that his brother will need to fend for himself, something he can do despite losing almost all their strifes to date; the kid had won but twice - once when the man was nursing a queasy stomach virus and another time when he just caught a lucky break.

He smiles for what is the first time in far too long as he thinks to those honorable defeats, knowing the kid has no use for him any longer; Dave can look after himself.

He fights valiantly beside two allies when the time comes, not looking back except once to see the majestic, golden-orange form of his brother land beside him, a strange half-hybrid of bird and man that still – _thank God_ – wore his shades. He scans over the angelic wings and bloody bandages and grim lines set into lil' man's face, making him look not so lil' anymore, and then at the puppet on his back, eyes drawn to that eerie grin. He raises his blade. He parries and deflects and attacks and lunges with vigor, knowing it is his last shot to end things and end them with pizazz.

He's also seen this play out a hundred, no, a thousand times at the dead of night, and try as he might to do otherwise, his moves still mimic the fated film; it plays out as it should. He feels the puppet swing against him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, little legs kicking against his back as he dodges incoming thrusts.

He curls his lips into a mocking smirk as he whispers, "Bring it on."

He spots the flash of silver in the same spot the dreams indicated, and for once he is thankful; to know where to be, to know how this is how it _has_ to be, and that's the only comfort in this fucking mess. He darts in front of the glowing orange ghost resembling his brother, throwing back an assured glance; Dave has to trust him. He watches the kid nod slightly, backing away but getting ready to hurtle forward. He wishes he could tell him what's coming next doesn't matter and that he shouldn't be scared - for what's one shitty, half-eventful life for that of a hero, for that of the boy who is going to save the world? He wishes he could tell Dave it was either him or his Bro, and that's what a big brother did – he took the hit for his sonofabitching lil' bro. He just hopes that the understanding of it having to be this way would float above the angry fright in due time.

He feels the finale before it arrives; the metal edge cracks through his ribcage seconds later. He looks down for some time, watching the uneven rise and fall of his bloody chest, listening to the wet, slurping sounds of his leaking lungs, struggling to see past the white light pouring into his eyes. He hears Cal land behind him as he falls too, the solid thunk of his frame matching the puppet's descent. He looks up the dog-beast that stabbed, yes, _stabbed_ him. His eyes are large and shining.

He smiles.

He hears the cries of lil' boss beside him, screaming out "NO!" followed by the flutter of wings and a golden glow. He feels the chill surrounding him, though his hands are scalding and sticky and scarlet. He still smiles, listening to the Dave that is not Dave: "You can't do this, you asshole, you can't leave me here by myself! You can't die! Don't fucking leave me!" He smiles wider, blood oozing from his trembling lips and mixing with saliva between his teeth, feeling the life being drawn from him through every breath. He coughs out clotted spittle and some half-profane apology, but he isn't sorry. He then says something to Dave, for it is Dave, of course it is, and it is something he means: "I'm... I'm so proud of you, Dave. Keep it.. it up, lil' man."

He listens to the sobs of the kid long after the darkness comes, and the words that follow ring in his ears. He knows he's done at least one thing right when he hears: "I'll try."

He lived by Bro Strider; he dies with that name. He turns up his middle fingers at Life as he sighs himself to sleep.


End file.
